


Beautiful Music Together

by foxyboxes



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh the Abridged Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8526901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxyboxes/pseuds/foxyboxes
Summary: My gift for the YGO Mini-exchange!  ....which ended up not being quite so mini.   Bakura attempts to teach Marik to play an instrument





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CursiveBlade13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CursiveBlade13/gifts).



The lamplight caught Marik’s hair, painting it up with liquid gold highlights as he carelessly adjusted his posture in the rickety computer chair, or tossed his head back with laughter at one of his own jokes.    Bakura hadn’t listened when Marik had announced what he was playing for the internet’s benefit tonight.  Furthermore, he didn’t care...because, right then, in that moment, the only thing that mattered to him was that the boy was unfairly gorgeous.      


For awhile, he’d been able to afford himself the comfort of thinking that his captivation was all a product of long-suppressed lust...that one day, he and Marik would blow off the steam that had gathered between them with a good hard romp and that would be that.   They’d both be able to get on with their own agendas...Bakura with his revenge and Marik with his petty antagonisms that he thought amounted to villainy.      


Eventually, that day had come.   It had not been world-shaking or breathlessly romantic as Bakura had sometimes fantasized it would be, but it had been...something.     Marik had called an impromptu meeting of his Evil Council, and it had, once again, turned out that the other villains of their series had more pressing engagements than dropping everything and heading out to Somewhere In Egypt.    After he had finished flapping around and squawking about how outraged he was, Marik had settled down and tried to think of other ways to pass the time.  Eventually, it had been decided that they would make a drinking game out of reading fanfictions about themselves online.  After Marik had introduced the rule that they must drink whenever the name “Kura” appeared, they had both been well-and-truly pissed about a half-hour in.   Bakura, slouched up against Marik with his face buried in the other’s shoulder and breathing deeply of the scent of his skin, had suggested they also add the rule that they take a shot every time they had to read through the two of them cashing out their virginity to one another.   
  
_ “Why do they even assume we’re virgins, anyway?” Marik had complained, snapping the lid of the laptop closed with a huff and pushing it aside to focus on pouting proper.  “I mean LOOK at us, Bakura!  We are two very sexy, virile anime villains.   I, for one, have been with plenty of girls.   Literally hundreds.” _ __   
__   
_ “Marik, you thought a clitoris was a fancy Italian car.” _ __   
__   
_ “And you’re like a billion years old.”  he’d gone on, handily ignoring Bakura’s statement.   “You’ve probably found at least one person who can put up with all that paleness.” _ __   
__   
_ “For the last bloody time, I wasn’t pale back then.”  Bakura had groused, the offended edge he’d meant to put on his words sluggishly turning over and dying somewhere between his thoughts and mouth.  Speaking of his mouth, he had been practically pressing his lips to Marik’s neck for the last few moments and the boy hadn’t so much as flinched, let alone thought to push him away.   _ __   
__   
_ “You know what we should do, Bakura?  We should write our own fanfiction.”  Marik had said.  “We’ll call it ‘If We Weren’t Really Just Friends’ and we can lay out that scene how it would go in the event we WERE gay for one another.  ...in some alternate timeline which is totally not this one.” _ __   
__   
_ “Really.”   He hadn’t bothered getting his hopes up, having been led on once too often by Marik’s zig-zagging train of thought that often hinted at everything he’d wanted for the two of them one minute, just to yank the rug out from under him the next.  _ __   
__   
_ “Yeah!  Let’s brainstorm - how would you start that story?” _ __   
__   
_ “Errm…”  Bakura’s eyes narrowed as he attempted to bring focus to his bleary thoughts.  “....wait, you actually want an answer to that?” _ __   
__   
_ “See?? This is EXACTLY why it would never work!  You don’t even know where to  _ **_begin_ ** _ romancing me!” _ __   
__   
_ “No one said anything about bloody romancing you…!” he had growled. In a more sober frame of mind, he would have scuttled back to a safe distance in spite of himself, seething with embarrassment and outrage until the subject was changed.  As it was, he had taken up a lock of Marik’s hair between his middle and forefinger and begun to slowly twine it around them.  “Okay...how about this?  We’re all alone in a hotel pool after a convention…” _ __   
__   
_ “You’re NEVER alone at a hotel pool, Bakura.” Marik had argued, taking note of the fingers in his hair and responding in kind as he tugged on a jagged clump of Bakura’s bangs.  “What if the pool guy walks in?” _ __   
__   
_ “Then he can join in too.” Bakura gruffed, wincing.  “...fine.  A suite, then.” _ __   
__   
_ “Too expected.” _ __   
__   
_ “A bloody closet.” he had growled.  “You ought to feel right at home in it.” _ __   
__   
_ “Heeey, what are you implying??”   _ __   
__   
_ “Or maybe I pulled you in there because I was sick of all your buggering denial and finally aimed to do something about it.” _ __   
__   
_ There had been a beat of silence between them and their eyes had met.  It had only been for a second, and yet Bakura had felt the air between them shift a bit, chasing the sourness from his face as Marik had inclined his head slightly. _ __   
__   
_ “Go on…?” the boy invited, arching a brow and leaving Bakura suddenly short for words. _ __   
__   
_ “I--well…”   _ __   
__   
_ “Come on, Bakura.  You were almost in the zone, don’t ruin it.”    _ __   
__   
_ “Right…”  he cleared his throat, attempting to ignore the pumping of his long-dead heart.  “I would...press you up against the wall.  Pull open that shirt of yours, taste your throat and chest.” _ __   
__   
_ “You know...”  Marik’s eyes had slitted, making it difficult to tell if he was being receptive to this sort of talk or if the booze was merely putting him to sleep.  “...I take issue to that scene.  Because the entire friggin fandom knows that I don’t get dominated.” _ __   
__   
_ “Do they, now…?” he goaded, batting the ball into Marik’s court.  “Tell me more.” _ __   
__   
_ “Well, for one thing, you pinning me up against the wall?  As if that could happen!  It’d totally be the other way around.”  Marik had leaned in closer to illustrate his point.   He’d been so close...Bakura had remembered feeling the puff of Marik’s breath against his own dry lips and the way it made a twist of wanting snarl through his stomach.   “You might be the one pulling me in, but in the end, you’d be BEGGING for my rod.” _ __   
__   
“I never beg.” he’d challenged, parting his lips just slightly as he’d moved in slowly, expecting to be denied contact.  He always was.    Instead, Marik had muttered something about conducting canon review as their mouths had clumsily grazed one another.  

It had all gone to hell from there (or to heaven, if one were to see it from Bakura’s standpoint).   Lots of hasty shoving and pulling one another down a path that most new lovers trod upon with care.  Lots of drunken cursing and arguing over plot points in their imaginary fan fiction where there should have been sweet words and soft laughter.   In the end, they HAD held one another afterward, if only because they’d both passed out.   

Come morning, Bakura had awoken on the sofa with a pounding headache and a freshly-showered Marik perched at the computer as if they hadn’t just fucked one another into oblivion a few hours prior.     He had laid there in silence, studying Marik for a long while and questioning where they ought to go from there.  The answer, apparently, had been ‘to the corner store for more Diet Coke’ as that had been where Marik had sent him once he’d noticed he was awake.   

All in all, not much had ended up changing after all.   Marik was still Marik - oblivious, impossible, and pretty - and Bakura still caught himself staring at him longingly from across the room while pretending to read whatever rag was convenient, just so it wasn’t as glaringly apparent.   ...even if Marik always seemed to notice anyway.   
  
It would have been better to simply leave.  Easier.  Their time together was borrowed and the day WOULD come that the Pharaoh would venture into the swirling mists of the past in search of his name, and Bakura WOULD follow him there to head him off and destroy him.    And yet, every time he had solidified his exit strategy, Marik would find a way to catch him on the ends of his claws and drag him back in, intentional or not.     
  
“Hey Bakura! Do something Egyptian for the stream.”  Marik commanded suddenly, twisting around in his chair to regard him and snapping the spirit out of his reverie.   
  
“Something ‘Egyptian’?” he repeated incredulously.  “Marik, you’re Egyptian too!”   
  
“Yeah I know, but you’re from like VINTAGE Egypt.  Things were a lot more interesting back then.”   
  
“Yes. ‘Interesting’ is certainly a way to put it.”  he grumbled, grabbing for a nearby issue of Bitch Frenzy to stick his nose in and attempt to divorce himself from this conversation.   Even so, he could feel the boy’s eyes on him expectantly, drilling straight through the magazine and into his person until he felt compelled to peer over the top and return the glare.     “I’m not entertaining your bloody stream!”   
  
“Oh come on!” Marik whined  “Everybody’s always saying how they wish you’d participate more!”   
  
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe  _ you _ participate enough for the both of us?” he grumbled, not-so-subtly making a jab at Marik’s tendency to talk over any attempts he DID make to contribute.     
  
“Yes I know, and they are very entertained by me, but they want you to do something Egyptian for them.  I am merely a messenger of the friggin people, Bakura.”   
  
“Who does?” he challenged.   
  
“Ahh….”  Marik’s attention briefly diverted back to the screen as he scrolled up.   “....there! That guy!  Yiffyvixen1994 says ‘get Bakura to do something Egyptian for us’.    So that means you pretty much have to.”   
  
“Because gods forbid I disappoint the pillar of prestige and taste that is Yiffyvixen1994…”    If his eyes were rolling any harder, they’d be spinning.   “Sod off.”   
  
“Fine.”  Marik huffed.  “But when you wake up one day and realize you never did anything worthwhile OR Egyptian for the internet, don’t come crying to me.  Because I GAVE you a chance.”   
  
A grunt was the reply as Bakura raised the magazine to fully obscure Marik, his midriff, and the computer from his sight.  He scanned the articles, pretending to read them as Marik dutifully reported to the public that Bakura had refused their demands.   
  
Maybe he’d let him off too easily….maybe he should have made him twist a bit and had him explain what he’d meant.  Ask him what, exactly, was entertaining about hiding in the desert, fighting off jackals by day and stealing into town beneath the palace’s shadow once night fell to thieve enough supplies to continue surviving.     
  
It had been a wretched bloody existence, to say the least...and not one he was keen to recount for the faceless internet masses.   At least not without a proper flashback arc.   
  
And then Marik would thrash around and verbally attempt to wriggle himself out of the hot seat he’d been put into, somehow managing to turn the whole thing on its head and make Bakura look like the jerk for reminding him that he wasn’t the only one with a tragic character backstory between them.   Such was life Somewhere In Egypt…   A wry smirk touched his mouth, threatening to show itself.   
  
Of course, every moment hadn’t been horrible.   He had faded memories of laying beneath spanless star-filled skies, contemplating his place among them,  or the odd occasion as he’d gotten older where he’d felt froggy enough to terrorize the Pharaoh’s guards during one of his excursions into town, testing their limits and learning the best hiding places in preparation for what would become his long-awaited siege against Atem.      
  
The urge to smile dried up abruptly as his train of thought took a forceful U-turn toward the idea of leaving Marik behind when the time came and he dared peek over the top of the magazine once more.     He hadn’t, all that long ago, been the sort to concern himself with positive impressions...the more people who remembered him as a miserable bastard who had done all within his power to ruin lives, the better.   
  
And yet, with Marik….   
  
His thin lips pressed into a frown as he watched the back of the boy’s head while he bantered with his viewers over details regarding vintage candy commercials.    The idea of Marik looking back on their time together with disdain weighed sourly in his head...he could almost hear him now:   _ ‘Bakura never friggin wanted to do ANYTHING that didn’t involve being bitchy.  He wouldn’t even act Egyptian for the internet.’ _

Huffing a sigh, the spirit laid the magazine on his chest and interlaced his fingers.   
  
“Hey, listen.  Okay?  Just  _ listen _ .”  Marik was demanding.   “You can’t like ONE Doublemint Twin without liking them both.   That’s like saying you have a favorite Olsen Twin.  They aren’t--”   
  
His tirade was brought up short before it could really gain steam by a trilling of melodic notes from the direction of the couch that made him immediately abandon the petty debate to seek its source.   What he found was Bakura, mouth pursed and brow furrowed in concentration as he blew between his thumbs, forcing his hands to act as a makeshift ocarina.     
  
Noting Marik’s sudden interest. Bakura hammed his performance up a bit, the trill of notes becoming a full warble of music, riddled with whistles and birdcalls.   To top the spectacle off, he ended it on a lingering high note before dropping his hands to rest them on his chest.     
  
“Happy now?”    
  
Marik’s mouth worked as if he were trying to articulate how to even begin reacting to what he’d just witnessed.   
  
“You--wha--”  A finger jabbed itself in Bakura’s direction accusingly.  “How dare you do something like that and NOT show me how!” he exploded at his partner, receiving a quirked brow of amusement in return.     
  
“Oh?  You didn’t strike me as the musical sort.”   
  
“Nonsense!  I am VERY musical!” Marik insisted, having entirely abandoned his stream to give Bakura his full attention.  “I’ll have you know that I can imitate a WIDE variety of instruments!”   
  
“Then I guess you don’t need me to show you how it’s done.”   
  
“Bakura....!!”  There was the slightest edge of desperation in Marik’s whining as he leapt up and out of his chair, making a satisfied grin twitch its way across Bakura’s mouth.  Seeming to have realized the impulsive spectacle he was making of himself, the boy immediately attempted to reign it in a bit.   “I mean, fine.  I don’t care.” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away stubbornly.  “Who wants to use their friggin hands as a flute anyway?  That’s a dumb thing that only  _ dumb people _ know how to do.”   
  
“Do you want to learn or not?”   
  
“SHOW ME!” he demanded, bounding eagerly over to the couch and rudely seating himself on Bakura’s thighs, making the other wince as the magazine was jostled to the floor.     
  
“All right...here, move over.” the spirit grunted, sitting up so that he was, more or less, seated beside Marik as the boy scooted off of his legs to free them.    “Cup your hands like this.” he began, folding his left hand into his right to demonstrate.  “And then you’ll--no, not like that.  Tuck the side of your hand into the crease.”   
  
“What, here?” Marik asked, making a noise of frustration as he fumbled his hands over one another, shooting occasional glances at what Bakura was doing with his own.     
  
“No, just--”  setting his jaw in annoyance, Bakura reached over to manually arrange Marik’s fingers himself.  “Like that.  And then you fold these fingers over the back of this hand, and bring your thumbs together.”   He pressed Marik’s palms to guide them until they were properly sealed.      
  
“Oh-kay….”  Marik regarded the arrangement uncertainly.  “Now what?”   
  
“Now you blow into your thumbs.  Like this.”   A long, low note filled the air between them from Bakura’s cupped hands, making Marik eagerly follow suit.   Instead of a music, though, only the disappointing hiss of air escaped his fingers.  “Try again.”  Bakura urged before Marik had a chance to complain.   “Make your hands tighter.”   
  
“How did you even figure this crap out?” Marik asked, adjusting his fingers and trying again with similar results.   
  
“It gets boring out in the middle of nowhere.  After awhile you start looking for any way possible to keep yourself entertained.”   
  
“I thought you were some sort of Thief King.”     
  
“That was only entertaining while I was in action.  The rest of the time was all lying in wait and hiding.”    It was a subject the legends in the dusty tomes of Atem’s rule hadn’t covered, making it sound as though Bakura had spent every waking moment stampeding through town and raining darkness and destruction upon the people of Egypt.   It wasn’t as engaging to read about the endless days spent huddled in caves to avoid the glare of the sun, chewing on leaves of whatever succulents were growing nearby, tossing stones at lizards, and seeing what tricks his body was capable of to break the monotony.   
  
Marik blew another toneless puff of air between his fingers and pinched up his face in dislike before dropping the awkward posture, seeming to give up for the moment.   In response, Bakura trilled another birdcall, watching as the frustration gave way to envy and, quickly enough, to Marik rearranging his hands to try it again.   
  
He inhaled dramatically and blew, this time producing a shrill whistle from his palms that made Bakura wince.   “There, see?”  Marik said, pleased with himself.   “Totally nailed it.”     
  
“Of course.”  Bakura replied flatly,, his expression slowly softening into something more appealing as he dropped a hand to Marik’s hip, slender fingers sneaking their way up under his shirt.   “....though I could think of better things for you to nail.”   
  
“You mean like that birdcall you keep doing?  Mark my words, Bakura, I’ll master that next!”  He beamed a grin as Bakura rolled his eyes.   “And anyway,” he continued, wriggling himself off of the couch.  “I’m in the middle of something very important.”   
  
“Important.”  Bakura grumbled.   “You’re just swanning around in front of your bloody webcam.”   
  
“Which is very important.”  he argued.  “How else am I supposed to give the world it’s daily reminder of my sexiness?”   
  
“I couldn’t imagine…” he muttered, grabbing up his magazine and burying his face in it once more.  No one could say he hadn’t tried…   
  
Before he could go back to pretending to read articles, the pages were abruptly snatched from his hands.   
  
“What the bloody hell are you--”  he was cut off abruptly by a mouth covering his own in a quick, deep kiss that lingered just long enough to make heat stir in Bakura’s pale cheeks before Marik broke it and drew back again.   
  
“It’s VERY important.”  he reiterated, eyes narrowed just a bit in impish teasing that made the spirit’s throat feel entirely too small.   “For the next ten minutes or so, anyway.  After that I’m pretty sure I can devote a couple hours to practicing blowing with you.”     Marik’s knack for innuendo, intentional or not, ought to have been criminal….as should his ability to slip effortlessly between being an annoying twat and a gorgeous beacon of desire.   
  
“...right.”  Bakura said quietly, before clearing his throat.   “Won’t learn if you don’t practice.”   
  
“Precisely!” Marik beamed before sashaying back to his computer chair, Bakura watching his backside with rapt attention until it was obscured by Marik flopping back into his seat and grabbing for his headset.    “Okay guys, I’m back.  Sorry, the cat was yowling about something.”   
  
Yowling about something, indeed…   
  
Bakura watched Marik resume his squabbles and bids for attention with the faceless collective of their fanbase through half-lidded eyes.   Perhaps, once that sodding camera was off, he'd show him what yowling was really all about.   



End file.
